Harold leaned in the doorway, watching the old woman sleep. She seemed so peaceful that it was easy to forget the sickness slowly gnawing through her. She had outlasted them all, surviving the Unification Wars, the Reconstruction, even the Pureblood Insurrection. In the end, however, her body betrayed her. Where hexes and angry mobs had failed, old age prevailed. Ariana Dumbledore was dying, and all the Doctors and Mediwitches in the world could not save her. Harold smiled softly as she stirred.
“You’re back,” she said sitting up slowly.
“Did you doubt it?”
“Certainly not. I had every confidence in Hermione. Once she sets her mind to it, she’s a force to be reckoned with.”
“In any universe,” Harold muttered. He sat at her bedside and reached out to clasp her hand. “How are you feeling?”
“I wish everyone would stop asking me that. It’s all anyone ever wants to talk about these days. The Doctors come and take my blood. The Mediwitches pour potions down my throat for all the good it does. Elphias visited last week and just sat there starring at me, and that Skeeter woman keeps pestering me about her damn biography.”
“I’ll have a word with her about that, though I would like you to speak with her at some point.”
“If you insist,” Ariana grimaced. “That woman annoys me.”
“She annoys a lot of people. It’s part of her…charm.” Ariana snorted in response. “Anyway, I understand you wanted to see me.”
“I hear you’ve had an eventful few days.” Ariana said peering up at him as if searching for something.
“You could say that,” he agreed.
“Tell me everything,” she commanded with a thoughtful frown. He obeyed.
Ron found Hermione in the Map Room, frowning at the ever-multiplying dots. Dozens had come through the portal in the past 24 hours: Cursebreakers, Ward Specialists, and Mediwitches. Ron knew he should feel hopeful, grateful. This was what they’d wanted after all. Real tangible help, perhaps not exactly what the Order had expected, but help none-the-less. Yet there was something bothering him, and judging by Hermione’s expression he was not alone in his unease. She didn’t spare him a glance as he hobbled next to her. All her attention was focused on the map. Ron doubted she’d even heard his approach, and that was worrying.
“I heard what happened,” he said. Hermione remained silent. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said. Others might have been convinced, but Ron knew her better than anyone. She hadn’t been fine since the encounter with her doppelganger. “Where’s Gavrilov?” she asked sharply. Ron studied her for a moment before shrugging.
“Coordinating with Flitwick. I think they might actually like each other. Don’t worry though,” he said. “I’ll have someone watching him all the time.”
“We’re supposed to be allies,” Hermione chided, but there was approval in her eyes.
“Then he should appreciate our concern for his safety,” Ron said innocently.
“We’ll make a politician of you yet,”
“Oi, no need to be insulting.” Ron sobered quickly. “Gavrilov has to earn my trust. Constant vigilance and all that.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you sure you’re okay.”
“I said I was fine Ronald,” she snapped.
“And I know you’re not. Maybe you should go to the infirmary to see Hannah, or Pomfrey.”
“Madam Pomfrey,” Hermione corrected absently. “I’m just tired Ron. It’s been a long few weeks.
No disagreement there. He limped away and sank into his customary station. “But it’s more than that. You had Priori Incantatem with yourself. Who knows what effect…”
“Are you lecturing me on Magic?” Hermione asked sharply.
Ron didn’t back down. “If I have to.”
Hermione glared at him for a moment, before sagging exhausted.
“Any word on Tonks?” he asked, changing the subject.
“She’s still unconscious, but Pomfrey…Madam Pomfrey is optimistic.” Hermione ignored his teasing grim. “As soon as Harry and Ginny get back we need to have a meeting. Events are moving too quickly.”
“There’s at least twenty Ward Specialists doing Merlin knows what. Even Bill is having trouble following them.”
“I know, and something’s bothering me about Gavrilov. I feel I should know that name.” Hermione barely suppressed a yawn.
“Go,” Ron said. “Get some rest. I’ll wake you when they get back.”
Hermione looked ready to protest. “What about you?”
“I won’t be able to sleep.” He rubbed his leg smiling ruefully. Hermione frowned.
“Here, let me help.” She drew her wand to cast a minor healing charm. At most it would have temporarily numbed the pain, but as she began to cast the spell her magic surged unexpectedly. Power burned down her arms into her finger at last erupting into her wand. The wood shattered and splintered in her hand and sent her sprawling. She stared in shock as the remnants of her wand slipped through her fingers. Only sawdust remained.
“Still say you’re okay?”
Corporal Rayne glanced around the curiously. Ms. Granger’s office was almost obsessively neat. The walls were lined with books, and her desk was organized into precise piles. Her quill and ink sat at a perfect angle. Everything was in its place. The door swung open quietly and he snapped to attention, as she entered.
“Please have a seat,” she said with a brisk nod.
“Yes Ma’am.” He sank into the plush leather gratefully.
“You know you could call me Ms. Granger. I am, after all, a civilian.” She sat behind her desk.
“Yes Ma’am,” he agreed. She was well known for her efforts on behalf of Muggles and Muggle-borns and he was deeply grateful. She was also the Premier’s right hand, and it paid to tread lightly. She smirked, as if she knew what he was thinking.
“You did well today.”
“Thank you Ma’am, but I didn’t do it alone. Goodwin is still in the hospital.”
“Yes. I understand it’ll take a few days to regrow the bones in his arm. Very nasty.” She broke off coughing. “I intend to recommend you and your team for the Order of Merlin, Third Class,” she continued. Rayne blinked in shock. In the history of the Hegemony, no Muggle had been awarded the Order of Merlin.
“Are you sure, Ma’am?”
“You rescued the Premier, Corporal, where two sets of elite wizards failed. You are a hero, and the Hegemony rewards its heroes.”
“But…” He frowned. Legally speaking Muggles had all the rights afforded Wizard-Kind. In reality, they were still seen by most as inferior, as interlopers. In the aftermath of the Pureblood Insurrection, blatant prejudice had been practically eliminated, but there would be many who would not look kindly on an upstart Muggle. After all, Churchill had been content with a Star of Dumbledore, why should he be any different. “Won’t there be…uh…difficulties?”
“Oh definitely,” she smiled. “It will certainly stir up resentment. There might even be a riot or two.” She didn’t seem too concerned with the idea, and Rayne realized with a start, that she was counting on it. He hid a grimace. Politics always gave him a headache.
“Will that be all Ma’am?”
“Just one more thing. I’m appointing you to the Premier’s personal guard.”
“But only officers…”
“Yes I know.” She rose somewhat unsteadily and smiled coldly. “Congratulations Lieutenant Rayne.” He shook her hand mechanically. Her skin was hot to the touch, and he briefly considered asking after her health, but that would have been impertinent. “You may go,” she said. Rayne snapped a perfect salute and marched towards the door. A dull thud brought him up short. When he turned around, he saw Ms. Granger lying motionless on the floor.
Harold watched the globe spin round and round. “I don’t understand how Albus could have let things fall apart, in any world,” he said. “And that’s another thing. There was no mention of Gellert. None at all.” He ran his hand through his hair. “There is something seriously wrong with that world, and Voldemort’s victory is just a symptom. Harold closed his eyes. ” Ron was alive,” he said softly. “Heavily scarred, but very much alive.”
“I’m sorry,” Ariana said.
“Don’t be. I’ve dealt with my grief.”
“Has Hermione?”
“Her grief is her own.” Harold made sure his tone left no room for discussion. “Their Order is running around like a headless chicken, barely alive. Events are moving too quickly.”
“You control events, Harold. They do not control you.”
“So Gellert said incessantly.”
“Have you spoken to him?”
“Gellert Grindelwald is dead,” Harold said sharply.
“You know what I meant.” He turned and glared at her, but she did not flinch. Harold blinked first.
“I will not consult with portraits,” he said. “I will not pretend that they are anything more than paint and magic. The truth is Albus and Gellert are dead. Everything else is a lie.” Ariana studied him silently. She remembered what had happened when he met his parents’ portraits. She remembered the pain.
“What are you going to do?”
“What I must,” he answered. “I am their son, if not by blood then by upbringing.” He wandered over and sat beside her. “Tell me I’m doing the right thing.” He heard the hungry pleading in his own voice. She reached out and took his hand in hers.
“You’re a good boy Harold. You could never let anyone sufferer in tyranny and anarchy.”
“No,” he whispered. “Never.” He leaned down to kiss her forehead. It was time to take charge. There was work to do. He stood and straightened his robes. “Never.”